Ghosts, hopes and dreams linger in the folky grooves of Rakish’s sophomore set, Now, O Now. The Boston-based duo consists of fiddler-banjo player Maura Shawn Scanlin and guitarist Conor Hearn, who weave the blended threads of Appalachia and Ireland into a thick Americana blanket. Their stirring instrumentals resonate deep in the soul, while their lyrical numbers add further hues—and palpitations—of the heart.
Ostensibly, the album’s a simple endeavor: two musicians, two voices, plus—on a few tracks—drum and bass. Scanlin sings lead on three songs, Hearn on two, while the other tracks feature the delicate interplay of their instruments. The result is an album that sounds somewhat akin to the shift of summer to autumn. Trees lose their leaves. A chill accents the air. “A welcome kind of sadness,” to borrow a line from “Island in the Sea,” tinges everything.
The title track and “Lightly Come or Lightly Go,” which feature Hearn on lead vocals, borrow their words from the great Irish writer James Joyce. The former equates a now-faded love to the cyclical seasons, while the latter urges what might best be called a mindful approach to life, focusing on today and not what may come tomorrow, next week or next year. One need not be aware of their Joycean origins to enjoy them, however; they sound like relics recovered from Appalachian hollers by A.P. Carter.
The opening track, “Lonely Hotel Room,” finds Scanlin burrowing into the loneliness that accents life on the road, while “Island in the Sea” delves into the questions born from being apart from one’s love. “Lightly as the Rain Came Down” possesses the thematic echoes of the Carter Family’s “Single Girl, Married Girl,” but adds context and color while exploring what led to a woman to leave her marriage. That it’s a sympathetic portrait of both parties makes it that much more powerful. The instrumentals are as strong, wringing unspoken truths from their emotive notes and chords. “The Morning Glory,” for example, contains hints of sadness and tints of joy, while “Time Check”—much as Joyce suggests—stops the clock.
The Old Grey Cat 